Seven Heads and Ten Horns
by Clarissa Gavin
Summary: A series of drabbles for Monster. Most stories T or below, check chapter summary for rating. Ch. 9: Windowsill - Rated M - Even when lying with the love of his life, Grimmer doesn't see the point anymore. So why can't he jump?
1. Trying to Understand

**Title:** Trying to Understand

**Rating:** T

**Summary:** The world is dark. Dieter Hartmann has to grow stronger to face the monsters, but he's not trying hard enough.

**Disclaimer:** Monster belongs to Naoki Urasawa and Viz Media. Don't sue me, bro!

**A/N:** This is the first of a set of drabbles (stories less than 1,000 words) I intend to write for the best anime of all time, Monster. Spoilers (whole series) will likely ensue in all stories, so read at your own risk.

* * *

"You're pathetic."

The words hurt more than the belt.

"A stupid, worthless child."

The tears blur your vision more than the concussion.

"All I want is for you to be like Johan! Why can't you be strong, like Johan?"

His hatred pierces you deeper than the sharp angles of the hardwood chair.

He beats you, over and over again. He hits you, whips you, cuts you with shards of broken glass from cheap beer bottles that he uses to drown the terrible memories of his own past. He beats you into the floor until you want nothing more than to die. At last, you can't take it. Everything goes blissfully black.

When you wake up, he's sitting by your bed, holding you hand and smiling. He strokes your forehead, brushing your sweat-soaked hair away from your face. You look up into his eyes, so kind and soft to an outsider, but you can see only cold steel, the hatred he reserves specifically for you. He speaks.

"I'm sorry, Dieter." His voice is sugar sweet. "You know how much I hate to do this. But the world is a dark place. If you don't become stronger, then the monsters will get you. If you were strong, then I wouldn't have to hurt you. You have to try harder. You understand."

Of course you understand. It's the only thing you've ever known, after all. You just wish he knew how hard you've been trying.

* * *

**A/N:** In related news, I have no idea what else to write, so if you want to drop me a PM with a request for my next Monster drabble or put one in your review, that would be GREAT. I'm counting on you guys to keep me motivated! Note that I am watching the anime in English so I am only at episode 64 (chapter 136?). If you think your request would spoil me, don't post it, pretty please. Bye guys!


	2. Wonder

**Title:** Wonder

**Rating:** K+, alomst T

**Summary:** Johan walks along a rooftop one stormy evening, thinking about life and finding some strange answers.

**A/N:** So, this is my second story in this series. I am still taking requests for what to write next, so please PM me with ideas, or just drop one in the reviews. Enjoy!

* * *

As clouds gather above you, you climb the ladder to the rooftop and wonder who.

You wonder who you are, and then you remember.

You are nobody, and you always will be.

As you glance up and note the darkening sky, you reach the top and wonder what.

You wonder what you are, and then you remember.

You are a monster, destined to kill.

As the air grows heavy with the scent of the coming storm, you sit on the concrete and wonder when.

You wonder when it all began, and then you remember.

It began long before you were born, with a man and a dream and a picture book.

As thunder booms in the sky, shaking the building beneath your very feet, you stare at nothing and wonder where.

You wonder where you came from, where you are, where you are going, and then you remember.

You came from sin, from greed and pride and lust. You're not sure where you are. But you know where you're going. You're going to Hell.

As the rain finally falls, slowly, drop by drop, you stand and wonder why.

You wonder why you are here and why things are the way they are and why you have to be this way. At last you remember.

There is no reason for anything.

As the rain comes harder, creating a torrent around you, you close your eyes and walk along the edge. You wonder how.

You wonder how it would feel to fly and fly and splat against the cold ground.

Your feet stop just before you fall. You open your eyes and smile. Oh well. Perhaps you will find out tomorrow.


	3. A Whimper

**Title:** A Whimper

**Rating:** K+

**Summary:** Some say there will be one man left at the end of the world. This is a lie.

**Disclaimer:** The Hollow Men belongs to T. S. Elliot. I give credit where credit is due, sir.

**A/N:** The epigraph of this piece comes from a poem, The Hollow Men. I don't think this is my best, but please read and review. I am still taking requests.

_

* * *

This is the way the world ends  
This is the way the world ends__  
This is the way the world ends  
Not with a bang but a whimper._

* * *

Some say that at the end of the world, there will be one man left. One man standing, watching, smiling. Others say it is not a man, but a monster. A monster with blue eyes and blond hair.

That is a lie.

* * *

Two pairs of shoes crunch softly on the icy ground. The soles of the shoes are worn, letting snow seep in through the bottom. The feet inside are pale and frozen. They can't feel anything anymore, so two pairs of eyes stare at the ground to make sure it's still there. It's a depressing ground. Everything is gray. The snow is old and packed hard from many days of harsh weather. The sky is gloomy and overcast. Mountains loom on the horizon, but they appear so far away that one is not even sure if they exist at all. There is no scenery at the end of the world.

Two dead, gray children walk along silently. The only color in this world is the chalky blue of their frostbitten fingers. They are holding hands. One of the figures is a girl in a pallid dress and a hand-knit sweater. The other is a boy, wearing a vest and faded jacket. He is clutching a book to his chest. The girl licks her cracked lips and looks up at the boy. She opens her mouth to speak but trips suddenly. The boy attempts to catch her. She falls anyway. Her cheek hits the ground with a wet slap, yet no pain reaches her through the numbing cold. The boy kneels at his sister's side, clutching her hand. He throws his picture book aside, and it lands, forgotten, in the snow.

"Johan," the girl murmurs. "I'm cold, and scared."

Johan smiles and brushes frozen tears from the pits of her eyes. He shrugs off his jacket and places it on her. "Don't be scared."

"Where are we? Are we going home soon?"

"There is no home. Everyone drank the wine. We're the only two people left in the world."

"Don't say that!" the girl pleads. She sniffles. "Don't talk like that... Johan, I'm hungry."

The boy looks confused. He wants to make her happy, but he's not sure what to say. He thinks for a moment, and then decides. "You can eat whatever you want soon," he says cheerily.

"_When_?" The girl starts to sob. "I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die here, all alone!"

Johan frowns. "But you're not alone. You have me."

The girl wiggles her fingers in Johan's grip. "Oh, God. I can't feel you anymore." She becomes hysterical. "Don't leave me, Johan, please!"

"I'm right here." He squeezes her hand.

"Please, Johan, please. Say my name."

"We have no names."

"Stop it! Please, just say it. Say it!"

He smiles sadly. "I can't."

"Oh, Johan, Johan! Say my name! Say it! Say my-"

Her words are cut off abruptly as he plants his mouth on hers and kisses her. He kisses her for a long time. As first, she moans in protest, trying to dislodge herself from him, but then she begins to enjoy it. She makes this soft, desperate noise in the back of her throat, and she does it faster and faster until it sounds like one long whine. Then she is silent. Finally, he pulls back and smiles at her. She has passed out. Johan stands up and observes his sister. Her arms and legs are stretched out away from her, as if she's making a snow angel. He lies next to her and does the same, grasping her right hand gently with his left. He closes his eyes and sighs contentedly.

* * *

Some say that at the end of the world, there will be one man left. Others say it is not a man, but a monster.

That is a lie.

There are two monsters at the end of the world.

One from the east, and one from the west.

A boy and a girl.

A Johan and a Nina.


	4. Empty

**Title:** Empty

**Rating:** T

**Summary:** Wolfgang Grimmer ponders what it's like to feel. Sadness, disgust, love, anger. Anything would be better than this.

**A/N:** I tried a poem format this time. It's short, but I hope you still enjoy it. I'm not sure how IC Grimmer is, so feedback is appreciated. R&R! Still taking requests.

* * *

What is it like?  
He wonders  
As he sits alone.  
He sees the people  
Passing by.  
They could see him,  
Too,  
If they bothered to look.  
But no one does.  
He sips his coffee;  
It is lukewarm  
And bland.  
He doesn't care.  
He doesn't know how.

What is it like?  
He wonders  
As he watches her.  
Her chest rises  
And falls  
In a steady  
Rhythm.  
She is naked,  
Sweaty, filthy.  
He takes a deep breath;  
The air is salty  
And stale.  
He doesn't care.  
He doesn't know how.

What is it like?  
He wonders  
As he holds his son.  
The newborn is  
So small  
With tiny fingers and  
Toes,  
Rosy cheeks,  
Almost no hair.  
The boy cries;  
The noise is strident  
And grating.  
He doesn't care.  
He doesn't know how.

Is this what it's like?  
He wonders  
As he sits alone.  
His son died  
And then  
She left him,  
Too.  
He quit his job,  
Packed his things.  
He looks around.  
The room is empty  
And cold.  
He doesn't care.  
He wishes he knew how.


	5. Asclepias

**Title:** Asclepias

**Rating:** K+, almost T

**Summary:** Feed them, and they will come. The basis for Klaus Poppe's experiments.

**A/N:** The Red Rose Mansion experiments from Poppe's eyes. This started as a really great idea in my head, but I'm not sure how it came out on paper. Tell me what you think with a nice review!  
EDIT: Not... quite sure how much I like this one anymore. Episode 67 was a doozy. I'll leave it up here, anyway.

* * *

It's amazing how easily people can be manipulated.

Klaus Poppe brushes his bangs out of his eyes with a slow, deliberate movement. He sits stiffly in a hard-backed chair and looks down at the children grouped in a semicircle on the cold, lacquered floor. They are sitting in rapt attention, every eye focused on him. No one dares to speak. Hardly anyone dares to breathe.

Poppe inspects each boy carefully. Johan, Edmond, Tomas, Jaromir, Rainer, Dedrick, Udo, Hans, Stephan, Kazimir. These are his exceptional pupils. They are the children he has chosen, personally, to be part of his new future. They are to be a new race of men.

With his help, clearly.

This is the day it begins. The boys are curious, of course, as to why they are here. They have never been taken away from their lessons with the other children before. Some of them are afraid. A few are excited. All of them are nervous.

Poppe shifts in his seat, and it creaks softly. He opens the picture book he is holding. The children's eyes open wide. He hold the book upright in his lap so they can see the illustrations clearly. He starts to read.

_"Once upon a time, there lived a nameless monster..."_

The boys' minds are captured by his silky voice. His plan is working. Poppe almost laughs. Of course it is. It's so simple, but so brilliant. All he has to do is feed them, nurture them with his wisdom, and nature will take its course.

Nature. Poppe smiles to himself. He is still reading the book, but his mind is elsewhere. He often likens himself to nature. He isn't a god; on the contrary, he is simply the catalyst to a natural process: the evolution of men. By far his most favorite analogy to nature is that of himself and the Asclepias.

Asclepias, or milkweed, as some call it. Modest and impassive, yet it holds so much power. Nowhere is Asclepias more important, however, than in the lives of _Danaus plexippus_, the monarch butterfly, his children.

Every year, these majestic insects come to him to lay their eggs. They trust him with the care of such young, vulnerable, impressionable minds. The children have no choice. They will eat the nourishment he offers them, or die. Through the slow intake of his toxins, they will become stronger. They will grow in his image. Then, as they leave him, they will spread his teachings in ways he has never imagined.

It is beautiful, Poppe thinks, how they devour the leaves of knowledge he has left for them. They take his poison, his strength, into themselves. It will take time. It always does. But eventually they will be full, and they will cocoon, metamorphosize, and emerge. They will be leaders, kings of men, true monarchs.

The pun is stupid and childish, he knows, but that does not detract from its truth.

There is no way for Poppe's children to reject him. He has been with them since birth, infiltrated their minds completely. They must always feed off him, just like their butterfly counterparts. They will return, eager for the sweet nectar only he can provide. And, of course, they must come back to him to lay their own eggs, at which point the process will repeat itself. His plan is foolproof.

It's amazing how easily people can be manipulated.

* * *

**A/N:** Requests are still appreciated (up to episode 66); I still haven't gotten a single one, guys! However, I am going on vacation and won't be available for a while (check my profile). See you, space cowboy!


	6. Me and You

**Title:** Me and You/Completion

**Rating:** K+ for the first part, M for the second

**Summary:** 1 - Who am I? Am I you? Are we the same? 2 - No, but together we are whole.

**A/N:** I'm back, baby! (After watching episodes 67/68) ...Everything I know is a lie. Asclepias wasn't very canon, was it? I think I'll steer away from anything having to do with Franz Bonaparta for a while. Anyway, here's two short Johan-centric pieces that go together, inspired by Monday's episodes. Read, enjoy, review! Still taking requests.

* * *

_Me and You_

I'm not sure anymore.

Who was it that lived the memories I have?

Memories of nameless monsters and picture books, of pitch-black rooms with no walls, of poison wine and 42 simultaneous, haunting screams.

Memories of roses.

Was it me? Or you?

Maybe it was both of us.

Perhaps I am you, and you are me, like the god of peace. Do you remember that?

Of course you do. We both do.

I am you, and you are me. We are the same.

Yet in some ways, we are not so alike.

Under the dresses and beneath my hair tied up with a bright red bow, we are different.

How can this be? I'm confused.

_Completion_

I think I've figured it out. Finally, I know. We are not the same.

Each of us is only half of what was meant to be, half of a single life, half of the whole.

We are not the same.

We are one.

See how beautifully we fit together?

Your hand in mine, mine in yours, our lips pressed together as you lean into me and I feel your voluptuous chest press against my lean form. Our noses brush together delicately. Even our eyes are mirror images.

I know why we are different, now.

You spread your legs and I move into you. You gladly take me. I feel myself filling you up, completing you. Your insides embrace my manhood perfectly. I glide in and out, in and out, like a beautiful naked machine.

At last, I understand. We were made for each other.


	7. Tunisia

**Title:** Tunisia

**Rating:** T

**Summary:** It's always been his dream to go to Tunisia. Why? What did he think he'd find there?

**A/N:** Here's a new drabble about an underapprciated minor character, Gunther Milch. He's always interested me, so I decided to write this. I actually really like this one. It's pretty long, and I wish I had the space (and motivation) to add more transitions and explination, but I don't, so there! R&R, please. Taking requests.

* * *

His first night in Tunisia, he hired a prostitute.

Gunther didn't think the novelty would wear off that fast, but it did. There wasn't much to see in Tunisia. The coast was lined for miles with identical houses, the monotony only occasionally punctuated by high rise hotels. A few upscale stores and restaurants clustered near the coast to attract the residents of the beach houses, but behind the facade of prosperity was a dirty, forgotten community. Dirt roads ran through a town that was comprised mostly of low concrete buildings. A few of the impoverished denizens milled about, drawling in Arabic or French. The whole scene was quite depressing.

Having nothing to do, Gunther wandered the streets for a few hours. Darkness fell quickly on the town, and most people returned to their homes. A few cracked, rusted streetlamps flickered to light. He felt lonely under the star-studded sky, and he wanted company. He knew he would have to hire it.

A young scantily woman was leaning casually on the side wall of a gas station. She was tan and attractive, better than most of the whores in Germany. Gunther approached her. She smiled and winked coyly, then said something that he couldn't understand. He shrugged at her, but she didn't seem deterred. She grabbed his hand, placed in on her chest over her breasts, winked again, and nodded at him. He nodded back. Her smile broadened and she led him to a dilapidated warehouse a few blocks away. She opened a rusty door and pulled him inside.

The room they were in was cramped. A small bed took up one nearly half of the room, and a chest sat on the floor nearby, using the rest of the space. The walls were decorated with brightly colored pieces of paper and cloth and cheap plastic jewlery. The girl pulled off what could barely be considered a shirt. She pushed him down onto the bed and began dancing seductively in his lap, chattering away in a language she knew he couldn't understand.

Gunther let his mind wander as he went through the motions. There wasn't much for him to do, anyway. She took control: kissing him, unbuttoning his shirt, massaging his bare, wrinkled shoulder blades. He closed his eyes and sighed softly at the pleasure of her touch. This was comforting, what he was used to. Maybe Tunisia wouldn't be so bad after all. Tunisia...

Tunisia. His brow wrinkled.

What was he doing here, anyway? What did he expect to find? His parents? No. He'd never find them here; he knew that, he'd always known that. How would he? It had been decades since they'd left him, and even if they were still here, if they had used their real names, if they'd come to Tunisia at all and not Andorra or Nice or Venice, he would still never find them.

What he really wanted was an answer.

Why had his parents abandoned him? What was their reason? What was so wonderful here that they decided to abandon their own son in a train locker? So far he hadn't found a thing.

Thinking of his time in the locker made the crowded room suddenly seem even smaller. Gunther felt dizzy and sick. He desperately pushed the thought from his mind and turned back to the girl. She seemed anxious to get on with it, so he obliged her. If he closed his eyes, things were almost normal; she was just a filthy German prostitute and he was back in Dusseldorf and not here in this stupid, poor, ugly country where, now he realized, he didn't really want to be. When it was over, he put his pants back on silently. He was ready to leave, but the woman was looking up at him expectantly, holding her hand out. Oh. How was he supposed to pay her? Embarrassed, he put a hand up to scratch the back of his neck and felt something. It was a small gold chain, something he'd taken off of Gustav's neck after the accident. It had belonged to their mother.

Tears stung the corner of Gunther's eyes. With shaking hands, he hurriedly unclasped the chain, careful not to yank it in half, and stuffed it into the whore's hand. He ran out before she could say anything.

When he got as far away from the warhouse as he could, his knees buckled and he threw up.


	8. In the Grand Scheme of Things

**Title:** In the Grand Scheme of Things

**Rating:** T

**Summary:** He never found what he was looking for because it was never there to being with.

**A/N:** This little ditty was inspired by the summary for a Trauma Center fic which I didn't even read. It's loosely based off the events in the last episode of the anime. (Translation: I don't remember what actually happened and am too lazy to watch it again.) Still taking requests.

* * *

Roberto was a clever man. He could lie, cheat, steal, bend women to his will, and even build a gun from fortuitously shaped scraps.

He was clever, yes, but very, very stupid.

He didn't even know what the end was.

That was why he was here, bleeding to death on the streets of Ruhenheim. He clutched his stomach in pain, gasping for each breath. He looked desperately up at his blond-haired God.

"Johan," he managed. The boy turned his head. A boy, and yet he knew so much. "Tell me."

Johan smiled innocently and shrugged his shoulders, as though unsure what to say.

"You promised me. Tell me."

Still standing, still smiling.

"Tell me what it is, Johan. Tell me about the end!"

One word. "No."

"TELL ME!" Roberto roared the words with more strength than he knew he had left.

The boy approached him. He knelt on his knees at Roberto's side. Roberto's fingers twitched, eager to wring the answer from the boy's skinny neck, but he was too weak. He wished he'd done it sooner. He didn't know why he hadn't.

Johan looked down at Roberto, sneering. Robert was frozen by the sheer contempt evident in such soft, blue eyes. Rain dripped from Johan's chin into the gaping hole in Roberto's stomach.

"No."

Roberto reared to scream again, but hacked up a glob of blood. He tried to spit the sticky blob in Johan's face, but he didn't have the strength to do that either.

Johan laughed quietly and shook his head from side to side. His wet hair gently slapped the sides of his face.

"You don't understand, Roberto. You never did."

The boy stood. Roberto glared at him, seething, but quickly his anger fled. He was filled with shame. What had he done to disappoint his God so? He had followed Johan to the ends of the earth, but was no closer to finding his own end than he had been when he started.

Shame gave way to fear. He was dying. He was going to die any minute now, and yet he had no end. Death wasn't the end. He knew that. He had seen death again and again, and each time, the sky did not fall. He had seen innocence shattered, romances fail, dreams destroyed, but he had remained. He had seen so much terror and destuction, but the world had continued on.

What would be the end? What would bring finality to his long, tortured existance?

When Roberto died, he saw no light. He saw nothing but darkness. In that instant, he knew.

There is no end. Only a pause in the grand scheme of things.


	9. Windowsill

**Title:** Windowsill

**Rating:** M

**Summary:** What's left when even the most intimate encounters mean nothing? Is it only fear that keeps us from falling?

**A/N:** Another Grimmer-centric piece. Been a long time since I wrote this. I didn't really like it, which is why I didn't post it; it's not exactly in-character or anything. Mostly it's just abstract. Still, I think the writing quality is alright, which is why I'm deciding to put it up here. Hope you guys like it. Still looking for ideas if you have them.

* * *

There was a man,  
A naked man  
Who stood next to a windowsill.  
He was covered in semen  
And sweat and blood  
That dripped upon the windowsill.  
He watched the snow,  
The snow that fell,  
That fell upon the windowsill.  
He swung his knees,  
His knobbly knees,  
Over the side of the windowsill.  
He held a cup,  
A simple cup,  
While sitting on the windowsill.  
He took a sip,  
A tiny sip,  
From the cup he held on the windowsill.

_There was a man,  
__A naked man,  
__Who sat upon a windowsill.  
__There was a man,  
__A tortured man,  
__Who fell down from a windowsill._

There was a man,  
A cowardly man,  
Who crawled back in the windowsill.  
He left a cup,  
An empty cup,  
Of cocoa on the windowsill.  
He fell asleep,  
A troubled sleep,  
Instead of off the windowsill.

There was a man,  
A naked man,  
Who woke not on a windowsill,  
But next to a woman  
Who loved him so.

He wished he'd fallen from the windowsill.


End file.
